The Skyline Terrace waited above the city like an altar built for people who believed they had outgrown gravity. Sixty-eight floors up, the world below blurred into a sprawl of glass arteries and neon veins, LA humming like a restless beast. It wasn't the tallest tower, but it carried the kind of prestige that made height irrelevant.

The rooftop restaurant was members-only, invite-only, wealth-only, the place where the rich came to pretend they were invisible except to themselves.

Priya had rented out the entire thing.

I kept staring at the address she'd texted, trying to solve a puzzle that kept shifting shape in my hands.

I'd expected Madison to orchestrate the night. She was the sun around which all our chaos orbited, and celebrations were her battlefield of choice. But the message had arrived from Priya three days earlier.

Priya: Skyline Terrace. 8 PM. Wear something that makes you look like the god you think you are. This is my gift to you.

When I'd asked Madison, she'd simply smiled that soft, knowing smile that meant she was ten moves ahead. "Let her have this. She's been planning since she found out your birthday existed."

So here I was, stepping out of the Rolls-Royce Ghost with Linda on my arm, the two of us dressed like emissaries to a kingdom that measured worth in silk and confidence.

The private elevator whispered open, and the scene swallowed me whole.

Light. Space. The city stitched across infinite glass.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the perimeter, holding the entire horizon hostage. Downtown glittered with corporate starlight, the Hills rose like dark lungs in the north, and the Pacific sprawled westward, a velvet abyss dotted with freckled ship lights.

Inside, the restaurant had been transformed. Dark wood gleamed under chandeliers shaped like stolen moon clusters, brass railings caught ambient light, and the ceiling was painted in deep indigo, tiny gold flecks imitating constellations that pretended to be ancient.

Tonight, Priya had layered the place with warmth. Hundreds of candles, each flame a quiet dancer, made the outside city look brittle by comparison.

A single long table stretched across the room, set for thirty-two, the china so pristine it felt ceremonial, as though the night itself required reverence.

Everyone was already here.

Priya spotted me first. She stood near the entrance in a deep violet dress that clung to her like dusk, and when she noticed Linda beside me, she brought her palms together and bowed. It was so effortlessly graceful that Linda's face softened with surprise.

"Welcome, Mom," Priya said, her voice a gentle thread. "Mrs. Carter. Happy birthday, Honey. This is my thank you. For everything."

I hugged her, breathing in candlelight and jasmine. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to. You gave me freedom. A night like this is nothing in comparison."

Linda touched my arm, bewildered but smiling. "Peter… what kind of place is this?"

"My birthday party," I said. "Apparently."

The table erupted. Cheers rose in a chaotic chorus, and Tommy's voice barreled over all of it. "THERE HE IS!"

Faces came into focus as we walked forward. Tommy looked… sharper. Like life had finally handed him the right script.

Mia beside him glowed, her smile the quiet kind that anchored him. Ms. Chen observed it all from her seat, elegant and keen as a hawk. Lea and Kayla sat close, their bond tightening over the last weeks, their eyes flicking with territorial sparks when they looked at the cluster of women who shared me.

Charlotte was centered and composed, Margaret Thompson at the far end laughing with Anastasia and Celeste. The sight of Margaret laughing freely still felt strange, like watching winter thaw in real time.

And then the others… twenty of them tonight. Twenty-four, if you counted Emma, Sarah, Patricia, and Linda. Though Linda was still a secret folded between only a few of us.

Madison stood at the head of the table when she saw us, her red dress catching the candlelight like liquid fire. She moved toward Linda in an instant, smile blooming genuine and bright.

"Mom!" Madison wrapped her in a hug that made them look like old allies meeting after a successful siege. Linda hugged her back with a warmth that eased the room. "Madison, sweetheart. You guys organized all this?"

"Priya mostly," she said, eyes gleaming. "Now come. Let me introduce you properly."

She guided Linda toward the waiting table, looping her arm through Linda's as though the two of them walked this high altitude every day.

"Everyone," Madison said, her voice ringing with crisp delight. "This is Linda Carter. Peter's mother. The woman responsible for this beautiful disaster we all insist on loving."

The room stilled with respect.

Linda smiled, caught between awe and amusement. "Thank you all… for caring about my son."

Madison squeezed her arm. "Mrs. Carter, these are Peter's girlfriends. All of us. We call ourselves his harem."

"ALL?" Linda echoed, her eyes sweeping the table like she was counting comets.

"And someone has to keep them in order," Madison added, chin lifted in mock regal pride. "I'm the queen."

Linda laughed, delighted enough that it lit her entire face. She cupped Madison's cheeks. "Queen Madison. That suits you."

Her voice gentled. "Thank you for watching over him. For all this."

Something softened in Madison's expression, a warm honesty that rarely surfaced. "He's worth every bit of it."

One by one, the women rose.

Sofia stepped forward first, shy but steady. "Thank you for raising him, Mrs. Carter. He's everything because of you." The night gathered itself around that moment, like the candles leaned in to listen.

Janet, Victoria, Anya, and Ortega came in like a synchronized diplomatic unit, all polished composure and practiced elegance, the kind of women who could probably negotiate a hostage release in heels. Linda nodded through their greetings with the serene expression of a woman pretending to understand how her son ended up collecting professionals like rare Pokémon.

Then came Luna, radiating enough bright energy to power a small coastal town. Her warmth made Linda smile in that soft, involuntary way mothers do when confronted with non-chaotic positivity.

Amanda followed, shimmering. "Madame Carter, your son is magnifique."

Linda blinked. "Magnifique. I'm writing that down. He'll never hear the end of it."

The Miami contingent approached next—Vivienne, Celeste, Anastasia, Gabrielle, Ashby, Sophia Chen—so much beauty in one cluster that even the chandeliers seemed to brighten in approval. Each greeted Linda with a reverence usually reserved for dignitaries.

And then Emma and Sarah stepped up, grinning like the traitorous goblins they were.

Linda's expression shifted instantly into theatrical, operatic betrayal. "Traitors," she declared. "Both of you. Living under my roof, eating my food, using my laundry detergent, and you never told me any of this chaos was happening?"

Emma attempted innocence. "In our defense, we thought you'd freak out."

"I am freaking out. Internally. But with grace."

Sarah snorted. "Sure, Mom. Graceful like a swan having a stroke."

The table cracked open with laughter.

Priya stepped forward again, forming that deeper, ceremonial gesture of respect she reserved only for moments that mattered. "Mrs. Carter, meeting you is an honor. Your son gave us freedom and options when most of us had none. You should be very proud."

Linda touched her hands gently. "Sweetheart, thank you. But please stop bowing. I'm not a goddess, and you're making me feel like I need a cane."

Then came Isabella Rodriguez.

Linda's eyes widened, the slow dawning horror of a mother connecting dots she never wanted to see on the same page. "You're… his teacher." She blinked. "AP Biology."

Isabella looked like someone had asked her to explain photosynthesis under oath. "I am, Mrs. Carter."

Linda turned to me with the precision of a prosecutor. "Really, Peter? Your teacher?"

"In my defense—"

"No." She held up a hand. "There is no defense."

She faced Isabella again, voice settling into that low, dangerous register mothers use right before grounding someone until retirement age.

"Ms. Rodriguez. As an educator. As a person entrusted with minors. Why would you agree to your student's advances?"

Silence swallowed the table whole.

Isabella's mouth opened, closed, then opened again like her words were trapped in rush-hour traffic.

Linda pivoted, eyes landing on Luna next. "And you. Luna Valentina. Your mother works with me at Mercy General. She's my friend. My colleague. Does she know her daughter is not only in a harem with my son, but also dating one of her patients? Because unless I hallucinated medical school, I'm pretty sure there are ethics rules."

Luna turned the color of printer paper. "Mrs. Carter, I didn't— I mean— that wasn't— oh god—"

"I'm going to have a very long conversation with your mother," Linda said gravely. "A very long one. About boundaries. Professionalism. And about how her daughter—"

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